Page 17 of Never Say Yes To A Stranger

Still, I greet him with a smile. I’m wearing my prettiest prairie dress with yellow flowers and white lace trim at the neckline and sleeves. It goes all the way to my ankles, and it’s not a shapeless bag since it tucks in very neatly at my waist. Imighthave sat down and done a little bit of extra work on it yesterday in anticipation of his arrival. I may or may not have taken it in a little at the bust, making it strain uncomfortably across my breasts, I may or may not be wearing a bra because there was no room for one under the tight fabric, and, finally, I may or may not have done a little work on the hips and butt, so it also showcases me there.

I can tell by the way his eyes immediately sweep over me that he notices. However, he does have this charming habit, I notice, of changing his expression to one so unamused and flat that I might as well be a flaming bag of poo freshly dumped on his doorstep.

“Hello, Beau.” I wave him into the house, all eager smiles. “I’ve been thinking about what you asked me last week. Well, I changed my mind about it, mostly because I’m soooo far behind on orders.” I’ve taken the sewing machine out of the main room and set it up at my kitchen table. There are piles of fabric and half-finished dresses all over the place. It’s only four in the afternoon, so there are still lots of hours before bed. “You can watch me sew if you like.”

He enters like he’s walking into a den of starving hippos. Hippos might be cute, but I heard they’re one of the most deadly animals in the world. Have you ever seen videos of them eating pumpkins and just obliterating those things with a single chomp?

He eyes my sewing machine like it might come to life and start committing wild and atrocious acts against humanity, starting with him. Then, his cold eyes sweep to me like I might be plotting something along the same lines, and his left eye twitches. I was right about him not liking clutter. I got the neat freak vibe from him last week.

How is it possible that I forgot how arresting, captivating, and extremely gorgeous this man is? Is he frosty? Sure, but evencold, hard, and dead inside, this man makes my whole body feel very much alive, especially when he slips out of his black suit jacket, flips it over a free chair at the table, and starts rolling up his shirt sleeves.

Yeah, it’s hot in here in the summer, with the only AC being in the bedroom, the tube stuck out a hole in the window screen.

I look at his muscular, sleek, and tanned forearms, noting the smallest scar on one. I know if I ask how it happened, he won’t answer me.

I also know if I look up forearm porn, this right here…this is it to the extreme. My god, do they have to be so lush, tanned, and veiny?

“I’m not interested in watching you sew.” But his eyes rake over the table in a way that says he’s very much interested, so I don’t get it. Unless he’s trying to get unaddicted to his extreme kinks, and this happens to be on the top of the list, then what? He asked for this, and I said no. I shut him down. Why is he returning the favor now?

“No? You could just make business calls then.” It’s a snippy, prim response, and I want to wince, but I won’t give him the pleasure.

I don’t know how it started or when it happened, but all week, I’ve been preparing for battle. For a war. This man isn’t the enemy, so I don’t knowwhatI’m actually fighting. Maybe indifference or whatever has him laced so hard and tight that he can’t allow himself to unwind just a little. His surprising life story from last week in the barn feels like it never happened. He probably filed that underextreme mistakesand won’t be repeating it.

It’s a lot for just having met him once. I also sense there’s something more, something I should guard myself against, but I see nothing other than his ridiculous sexiness and the primalway my body responds. That’s all I have to go on. Goading him doesn’t seem wise, but that’s the way I’m choosing this battle.

“I have no business calls to make.” His voice is smooth, dark chocolate wrapping all around me. “This is my time. I’ve cleared my schedule.”

I sweep my hand to the table that’s overflowing with piles of fabric and half-finished dresses. “Oh, shoot. I’m so sorry.” I bat my eyelashes at him. I even applied extra mascara to make them long and full. I’m never going to have soft, soupy, cartoon-character eyes, but I did the best I could. “Some of these dresses are for a wedding. If I don’t get them out, the poor bride is going to have nothing for her wedding party. Her special day will be ruined because of me.” Well, it is true, but the wedding is still six months away. It’s a winter wedding for a lovely woman who lives in California and doesn’t have to be worried about things like snow in January.

Harder, colder, deadlier, and frostier eyes stare me down.

More liquid heat swirls in my belly, along with a heartbeat that’s insistent in making itself known in the most miraculous spot of…between my legs. I don’t know what happened to my body or why it turned traitor, but it has something to do with this man’s chemistry.

Duh, obviously. He’s basically sex encased in an expensive suit, and my body recognizes that his body is delicious and glorious, and he smells divine, and itwants. Even if thatwantgoes against the rules and laws of my brain.

“Erm, well, if you could just give me two uninterrupted hours, I could whip them up and do the final touches in the morning. But I’d really like these two hours. Would you like a book to read? I have handheld electronic games. Video games? You could play online poker.”

He looks like he’d rather be at a piercing place—ready to offer up his genitals—than do any of those options. Which begsthe question…why is he even here at all? Is he regretting that contract? If he were, he’d just pay it out. He has oodles and oodles of money. It wouldn’t even matter to him. Maybe it’s the principle. Maybe he’s a finish-what-he-started kind of person.

Postscript: why did my traitor brain have to come up with that analogy? Imagining this man’shmmmpierced is nothing short of obscene. In a very clit and leg-liquifying kind of way.

This is about going into battle to shield myself, not about getting closer to him by breaking through his icy exterior, even if I think he does need to open up. He’s lonely. He’s hurting. I don’t want to press on that and break him. Instead, I want to press on it andhelphim. He might be hotter than sin, and the worst things are always the most tempting, but this doesn’t have to end in sex. It can just end in something as soft and powerful as a hug. I think he needs one of those.

I think I need one, too.

But my gut is telling me it won’t end in just a hug. There’s something about him that needs guarding against, and it’s not the potent chemistry lab of his body that keeps screaming at mine to spontaneously start with experiments percolating in my lady bits.

“A book would be fine,” he finally growls out. His jaw looks so tight that it’s a miracle his face doesn’t split in half.

“And a cup of tea?” I offer.

He practically gags. “I’ll pass.”

“A glass of water then. Oh, and I went out and bought you some diabetic candy.”

“I don’t usually eat candy.”

Ooh, but he does look tempted. “Yes, I know you’re all spinach and white meat chicken, which I am planning on making for dinner, but you could have a gummy bear if you want.”

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